


long before you change your mind

by girljustdied



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2019-10-08 03:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17378360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girljustdied/pseuds/girljustdied
Summary: clarke and bellamy are absolutely, one hundred percent not interested in one another. absolutely not.





	long before you change your mind

**Author's Note:**

> takes place in some nebulous time after 2x08.

She has a shadow.

Bellamy Blake, sewn to the soles of her boots.

“People are starting to talk,” their knuckles brushing as they patrol the perimeter of the wall force her to speak up.

“People,” he teases the words out, “or Spacewalker?”

When she slows to a stop, he does so in tandem. “People.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” she takes in the lines of his face, his throat as he swallows. “It’s just something we need to navigate. Obviously there’s no truth to it.”

Turning away from her to check their surroundings, he hums an assent.

“I wish people would stop calling him that,” she follows slightly behind when he begins walking again. “ _Spacewalker_. We’re on the ground—what we do here on Earth is what matters now.”

“What would you suggest?” he smirks, glancing back at her.

She’s never said it aloud, never permitted herself to truly feel it: “Cheater.” And then, like an airlock opening in her chest, “Two-Timing Dick With A Bad Haircut.”

Chuckling, “Second one has a nice ring to it, Princess.”

His approval makes her backtrack, “Look, can we forget what I just said? It’s more complicated than that—I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s not life or death, Clarke.” He yanks a leaf from a branch above them and toys with it absent-mindedly, “You can bitch about an ex out in the woods. No one’s listening.”

“You’re listening.” And he’s more dangerous than the rest of what’s left of them put together.

“You keep my secrets, I’ll keep yours,” tone falsely light—his stare holding hers is solemn.

“I don’t know if that’s a fair trade,” she huffs out in an awkward, laughing breath.

Before he can retort, there’s a muffled sound from the tree line. They immediately snap to attention, both turning to scan their surroundings, Clarke positioning her body slightly in front of his. When he presses a palm to her left shoulder blade, she knows immediately he’s seen something in that direction.

“Cover me,” he whispers, gun at the ready.

“No, stop!” Grabbing the back of his jacket as he slips past her to try and stop him mostly ends up with her being dragged along, “Hold on, we may need back-up.”

“What’s the fun in that?”

A deformed, mutant panther springing at them puts a halt to their disagreement. The animal hits Bellamy while still airborne and slams him down into the dirt.

She can’t—she can’t shoot at it. Might hit Bellamy. Is frozen with fear, mind skipping to the same useless thought over and over until—

“Clarke!” pain evident in his voice.

Slinging her gun safely over her shoulder, she takes the small knife she’d recently begun to keep in her belt and lunges at the animal from behind. Buries it to the hilt in its neck, twisting the blade roughly into its spine until it stills.

“Bellamy?” a small prayer.

Crawling out from under the panther, bloody hand covering a thick gash on his cheek that runs down to his throat, “What took you so long?”

“I told you we needed back-up!”

“Did we take care of it alone or didn’t we?” he snaps.

Too furious to even speak at first, she focuses on wiping the blood from the blade of her knife on her jeans and shoving it back into its place at her side.

“ _We_?” her sudden exclamation takes her by surprise. “More like _I_ saved your stupid life, you ass.”

He regards her critically, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she huffs. “Are you?”

He nods, still practically holding his face together.

Her tent is the closest to the gate, so that’s where they end up. Him cross-legged on the tarp she calls a bed, her crouched over his lap with a moonshine-soaked rag in hand.

She bites her lip when he hisses in response to her touch, “This one’s definitely going to scar.”

His grin is much more of a grimace as she continues to clean out the wound. “Chicks like scars.”

“You’re not funny,” she cannot believe the smile tugging at the edges of her lips. Mouth pressed together tightly to smother it, she chastises, “This isn’t funny—it isn’t _fun_ , Bellamy. Your life matters.”

“I know,” he grouses with irritation despite not being able to look her in the eye.

“You can’t just—”

“Hold on,” he covers her hands now moving to grab a needle and thread with his own. “Hold still.”

“What?” That’s her line.

“Just hold still for a second,” he mutters, and kisses her.

He tastes like blood and dirt and stinging alcohol, lower lip slipping below hers for a tantalizing second before he pulls away.

“Okay,” he lets her hands go.

“Okay?” her voice a startled squeak. “What the hell was that?”

“Forget it—”

But then she’s leaning forward to crush her mouth back to his, both hands in fists in his t-shirt to keep herself from touching his face and knees digging into his thighs. It’s messy and too rough, her teeth biting down on his bottom lip and his fingers tangled in the knots in her hair. He groans into her mouth and she jerks back to find the gash in his cheek bleeding profusely again.

“Float,” she curses under her breath. “ _You_ hold still.”

He’s disarmingly quiet as she sews stitches into his skin with hands that keep trembling so hard she has to stop and collect herself more than once. When almost finished, she bites the needle and holds it between her teeth, then grasps the other end of the string coming from his cheek. Carefully pulls it taut.

“Knife,” she instructs with too much force, overcompensating. Holds her free hand palm up between their bodies.

He shifts and tugs her own knife free. Cuts the thread himself.

“Thanks,” he winces around the shape of the word, opening and closing his mouth experimentally. Hands the knife back to her; she sets it aside.

“You’re welcome,” breaths still too short in her chest, her pulse elevated.

“Clarke?”

In a daze, “What?”

“Is all that blood mine or is some of it yours?”

She’s covered in the stuff. Touches his forehead with the back of a hand; he’s warm but not feverish. “Yours. The head’s a gusher.”

“Sorry,” he rolls the damp, sticky edge of her t-shirt between his thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she can barely say the words louder than a whisper.

Looking down at his hand still holding onto her shirt, he lets go. “Alright.”

“We sorta run a rag-tag colony of teenage criminals together—it’s not smart for us to—”  
  
“Drop it.”  
  
“Okay,” she draws out the word to an uncomfortable length, tense.  
  
“Decompress, Princess.” He chuckles, “Not really interested in you screwing your eyes shut and pretending that I'm Finn, anyway.”  
  
If only that were the truth. “I was not—”  
  
“No?” Leaning up into her space, he firmly traces the line of her jaw with his thumb. She can just imagine the trail of blood he’s leaving behind. “So, if we were gonna go there, you’d be right there with me, huh?”  
  
She swallows with difficulty, refusing to shy away from his heated stare. “Meaning?”  
  
“Meaning if we were going to fuck—” he smirks at the way that word makes her flinch. “What, would you prefer ‘float?’”  
  
“’Fuck’ seems more appropriate,” she asserts brashly.  
  
Voice low, “Careful, Clarke.”  
  
“Wow,” it hits her suddenly. “You must really like me—”  
  
Infuriatingly patronizing, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

She circles a hand around to the nape of his neck and tugs him up into another kiss. Softer, this time, slower. Surprised, his mouth parts against hers; he breathes in her shaky, clipped exhale like a man starved for air.  
  
“You were saying?”

He drags his mouth down her jaw and latches onto her throat in response, sucking the tender pulse point there, hands on her hips dragging her more fully into a straddle over his lap.

“You’re going to rip your stiches out,” both hands in his unruly hair now, she shifts against his body in a way that makes him grunt. “Be careful.”

Thumbing the button of her jeans, his voice a low rasp, “You ever think about me?”

“I swear, Bellamy,” she has to practically twist her body into a pretzel to get her pants off in this position. “If you don’t—”  
  
“You ever think about me when you touch yourself?”  
  
“No,” she answers, because it’s the truth.  
  
He grasps her right hand and presses her palm low on her belly, skidding down until her fingertips graze the band of her underwear. Orders, “Do it now.”  
  
“Say please,” she orders right back, heart racing.  
  
His lips grazing her earlobe, “Please.”  
  
She bends forward to press her forehead into the crook of his neck, one hand steadying herself with a tight grip on his bicep and the other dipping underneath the fabric. Cunt wet and burning hot, she draws the wetness up and stokes her clit immediately, too eager. Can’t help the strangled groan that wrings out of her chest when he runs a palm up the line of her spine. His rough, calloused hands digging under her clothes, hitching her shirt up to her shoulder blades.  
  
“Bellamy,” she gasps, teeth grazing the skin of his throat, so close—  
  
He immediately reaches between them to grasp her wrist and keep her from finishing.  
  
“Wow,” he mocks. Sucks her slick fingers into his mouth one by one. “You must really like me.”  
  
“I’m going to murder you in your sleep,” she struggles to rid him of his pants. “Make it look like a Grounder attack.” His shirt would have to stay—taking it off over his head would mess up her handiwork even more. “Lie down.”  
  
“Bossy Princess,” are the last words he gets out before she’s slipped her underwear off and sinks down around him. His mouth clamps thankfully shut as he arches up into her, hands skating up her legs.  
  
She closes her eyes as they start to move together, find a bruising rhythm with each other. Already tantalizingly close, clit oversensitive, she shifts forward to try and find the angle where the friction’s just right—just right there—

“Open your eyes,” he breathes. “Look at me.”

The naked lust and yearning painted across his features is enough to send her over the edge, her body jerking with waves of an orgasm as she leans back and places her hands on the floor behind her for leverage. He thrusts slowly as she rides the last tremors, but then grabs her shirt in a fist and drags her back towards him until their chests are plastered together. Picks up the pace in earnest.

Just as she thinks she might come again—  
  
“Clarke, up,” he groans, easily lifting her almost entirely on his own as he pulls out to cum on her thighs instead of inside of her.  
  
“Fuck,” she gasps, body slumping off to rest on her elbow at his side as she tries to catch her breath, one leg twisted between his.

He touches his face and winces, hand coming away with more wet blood. Echoes, “Fuck.”

“I told you to be careful.” She leans over to inspect the damage. Two stitches torn out.  
  
“That was,” his voice trails off, seemingly distracted by watching her move to use her currently useless, damp underwear to wipe his mess off her skin.  
  
She can’t help her lips quirking into a lopsided, teasing grin. Unselfconscious, “Quick?”  
  
He rolls his eyes and lets his head loll back into the ground, “We both got ours.”

“Are you expecting a thank you?” she laughs incredulously.

He slings an arm behind his head to look up at her again with more ease. Answers soberly, “No.”

“Good.” Resisting the urge to lie down next to him and fall asleep, she pulls on her jeans and stands instead. “I really need to wash up. You coming?”

“People will talk,” his words careful and measured.

“Let them.”


End file.
